


Flying

by silvrhuntress



Category: Supernatural RPS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvrhuntress/pseuds/silvrhuntress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen needs to relax. Misha helps, in his own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Flying  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Pairing:** Misha/Jensen  
>  **Word Count:** 6491  
>  **Warnings:** BDSM  
>  **Summary:** Jensen needs to relax. Misha helps, in his own way.
> 
> Dedicated to Lady_Deathangel, who stayed up until oh-crap-a.m. to cheer me on through this.  
> 

The doorbell rang just as Jensen lined up the perfect head shot, setting the dogs to barking and fouling his line of sight. He cursed and dropped out of the game, yelling, “All right, easy!” as he got to his feet. He stepped over the coffee table and ran to the door in time to hear, over the sound of barking and yelping, a vehicle pulling away. “Shit,” he muttered, pushing through the furry crowd to yank the door open, wondering who it was.

He spotted a delivery truck just turning the corner and looked down automatically. The package on his doorstep was about 12 x 12 x 6, without the amazon.com logo he might have expected from something Jensen might have ordered – especially since _he_ hadn’t ordered anything.

Wary of things like insane fans, he leaned over, not touching the box, and peered at the label.

The “from” section listed TTM as the originator, with an address in Seattle. Fairly ominous.

The “to” section, though... “M.C. c/o Jensen Ackles,” he read to the dogs, who were trying to squeeze by to get at the box. “That little bastard.”

Grumbling to himself, he went back inside, leaving the box on the porch in condemnation of Misha’s antics, and went to find his cell phone. He flipped it open and hit speed dial #1 – the bastard had reprogrammed himself as #1, bumping his parents to #2 and Jared to #3 – and listened to it ring.

The ringing stopped, but it was a good eight seconds before he heard Misha’s voice, almost Castiel-low and raspy, mumble, “Jensen.”

“Were you _sleeping?_ ” Jensen demanded, glancing over his shoulder at the clock. “It’s a quarter to eleven.”

“Up late.” Misha let out a yawn that sounded sinful. “What’re you calling for? Party’s not ’til tonight.”

Jensen’s gut gave a little flip – a wildly inappropriate one, considering, hello, _co-worker_. But he could clearly picture Misha sprawled in bed, blue eyes half-closed and lazy, just-fucked hairstyle dark against a pale white pillow, sheet tangled low around his hips.

He shook his head because, _hello, co-worker_ , and said, “Yeah. So why the fuck is there a package for you on _my_ doorstep?”

“For the party. Just bring it, ’kay?” he asked around another yawn.

Jensen went back to the door, nudging the dogs out of the way, and picked up the box. It was surprisingly light – suspiciously so, in fact – and covered with stickers that read ‘Overnight Express’ and ‘Saturday Delivery’. “What’s in it?”

“For the party,” Misha repeated. “Gotta go. Good dream, you interrupted.”

“God,” Jensen muttered, more than a little intimidated by whatever Misha dreamed about. “Do I want to even ask?”

A low, wicked laugh sent a chill down Jensen’s spine. “Show you later,” Misha said, disconnecting.

Jensen snapped the phone shut and sighed, eyeing the box. “Bastard,” he told the dogs, tossing the box on the little foyer table. Leave it to Misha to decide – on Friday afternoon – that he was going to throw a housewarming party for the house he’d rented. Who the fuck threw a housewarming party for a _rental_? And he’d only rented it for the last month of filming, which made it that much more absurd.

“Come on, guys,” he told the dogs, herding them back to the living room. “A few more kills, and then we’ll call your daddy and let you bark at the phone for him. Gen will love that,” he chuckled, sprawling back on the couch.

* * * * *

Jensen was on time, pulling up to Misha’s rental house at exactly eight. He’d dressed appropriate for a one-month-rental housewarming party: T-shirt and jeans that were comfortably faded. If Misha ended up buying or signing more than a month-to-month lease, that might warrant something fancier. The same went for his housewarming gift: a rather sad looking plant with little blue flowers that he’d picked up on impulse while doing a grocery run.

It was awkward going to a party without his best friend, Jared, but the poor guy deserved some time alone with his very, very tolerant new wife. It was too bad that they’d killed off Ruby just in time for Jared and Genevieve to get married (though Jensen never got tired of teasing Jared about the missed opportunities).

Still, this looked like it’d be a quiet party – at least, judging by the lack of cars. He picked up the plant and the box, hit the Lock button on his remote, and headed up the walk.

The house wasn’t bad: It was small, but Misha spent half his time at the house Jared and Jensen had been sharing for the last five years, during filming. In fact, it was strange to be going to Misha’s place at all. He’d dropped the guy off at home a few times – first at the hotel where they’d put him up, and later at the extended-stay apartment, but he’d never actually gone inside either. It made him suddenly curious about what kind of place Misha would call home.

In answer to his knock, he heard Misha distantly call, “Come in!” The door was unlocked, so he stepped inside a little warily, but the house seemed... normal. Neutral tan carpet; living room with a brown sofa, loveseat, and armchair; flatscreen TV on one wall with an empty cabinet underneath for DVDs; bland landscape hanging over the sofa.

“Jensen?” Misha’s voice came from somewhere upstairs.

“Yeah. Kinda quiet party, huh?” Jensen called suspiciously, going to the kitchen counter. He put the plant and the box on the breakfast bar. The kitchen was pristine, without a hint of the beer or snacks he’d expected, and his stomach gave a little rumble of protest.

“Did you bring the box?”

Sighing – Misha never answered any question unless he _wanted_ to answer it – Jensen yelled back, “Yeah. I brought your damn box.”

“Could you bring it in here, please? Oh, shoes off, too.”

God, already, Misha’s peculiar brand of crazy was turning the night inside-out. He knew better than to argue; with Misha, it was often easier to just go with things. He tugged off his worn boots and shoved them under one of the bar stools, feeling peculiarly naked without them.

Resigned to a night of weirdness, he picked up the box (and gave it another shake, though it didn’t help him figure out what was inside) and followed Misha’s voice to a stairwell. “Is this something you and Jared cooked up?” he demanded suspiciously, climbing the stairs.

Misha’s low, throaty laugh floated back in response. “Jared _was_ worried you’d spend all your free time playing video games and spoiling the dogs,” he admitted.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Jensen muttered, letting Misha’s voice lead him to the open doorway at the end of the short hall. He leaned against the jamb and looked over, to see Misha up on an aluminum ladder, with a ratchet in one hand, turning a bolt into the ceiling. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Running late. I didn’t get up until two,” Misha complained, giving the bolt a last, hard twist. He nodded and climbed down the ladder, tossing the ratchet into a canvas tool bag on the floor. “And done now,” he announced, turning to smile at Jensen.

“So, you want to explain what’s going on?”

“I’m giving you something to do. It’s Saturday night, Jensen,” Misha pointed out, walking over with his hands outstretched, bright blue eyes fixed on the box.

“Uh uh,” Jensen countered, putting the box behind his back. “You tell me what you’re planning first.”

“You don’t trust me,” Misha accused.

“Hell, no! And I trust you and Jared conspiring even less.”

“Jensen.” It was amazing how big those blue eyes of his could get; he’d obviously been studying the ‘kicked puppy’ look that Jared had mastered. “I swear, I only have your best interests at heart.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s just to help you relax,” Misha said, getting up into Jensen’s personal space like he was channeling Castiel or something. “And Jared knows. You want to call him? He’ll be disappointed if you say no.”

“Say no to _what_?”

“That’d be ruining the surprise.”

Jensen glared at Misha for only a moment before looking away. Damn the man for being so fucking charismatic, with that ‘I really do care’ expression and those damned eyes...

Fine, Jensen had been lonely since Jared left two weeks ago. He wasn’t about to begrudge his best friend some quality time with his wife, but still – two weeks past, two more weeks to go, and all of Jensen’s scenes were with Misha, Jim, or one of the guest stars (all of whom were phenomenal, admittedly, but still...)

“Fine,” he relented, offering the box to Misha. “What is it? I didn’t see an Xbox downstairs.”

Misha snorted. “Jared told me you play enough video games as it is. Go sit,” he said, pointing to the foot of the bed. When Jensen shot him a disbelieving look, Misha just ignored him, carrying the box over to the tool bag. He flopped down on the floor, cross-legged, and dug a box-cutter out of the bag.

It wasn’t that Jensen hadn’t thought about Misha’s bed; it was that he _had_ , despite the warning mantra of ‘co-worker’ that he kept chanting in the back of his head. He sat down warily, as if expecting something to jump out of the covers and bite him.

To his surprise, the bed held up firmly under his weight. It was definitely _not_ part of the rental. It was king-sized but looked bigger, with a massive bedspread of pale grey that sort of clashed with the over-neutral tan and beige paint, carpet, and drapes. The spread was fine cotton and felt like it was filled with light down instead of poly-fiber, something Jensen could appreciate. Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised; he knew Misha was a hedonist of the worst sort.

As soon as he realized he was picturing Misha the way he must have looked this morning, sleep-mussed and innocently defenseless, sprawled in _this bed_ , he turned and looked at the man in question, reminding himself _co-worker_. “So, what’s the big surprise?”

In answer, Misha lifted something out; Jensen spotted a flash of blue before Misha was throwing it at him. “That, Jensen, is eight millimeter custom-dyed, hand-made, conditioned hemp rope.”

While all the words made perfect sense, of course, Jensen had no context. He turned the neat coil in his hands; it was a series of loops that had been flattened and then wrapped with a tight coil, almost forming a bar with loops sticking out at either end. One tail was visible, sticking out of the tight wrapping; the end had been sewn up with black thread to keep it from fraying.

“Why?” he finally asked, looking back at Misha.

“Because it’s spring,” Misha said helpfully, pulling out another dozen or so coils of rope, all of them blue, in varying diameters. He tucked them all against his body, holding them with his left arm, and lifted a pair of strangely-bent shears out of the box with his right hand. “Perfect,” he said, getting to his feet.

“ _What’s_ perfect, Misha?” Jensen demanded suspiciously.

“Will you relax?” Misha sighed, though the amused sparkle never left his eyes. He dumped the rope at the foot of the bed and put the shears down beside the pile. “Did you talk to Jared today?”

“Yeah, this morning. They were just heading out to dinner.”

“Having fun?” Misha took away the rope he’d thrown to Jensen and set it with the others, sorting them into piles, apparently by length.

“Yeah.” Jensen couldn’t help but watch, more than a little entranced at the way Misha handled the rope, his hands confident and sure, moving without hesitation. Fuck, he could get a job hand-modeling, though it’d be a waste with those perfect eyes.

Misha didn’t seem offended at Jensen’s diminishing conversation skills. He finished his sorting and picked up two medium-length ropes, carrying them back over to the side of the room. Whatever he was going to hang there had thrown the room out of balance, with the huge bed too close to one wall and too much open space on the other side.

He climbed the ladder, and Jensen noticed that he was barefoot. His jeans were frayed at the cuffs and fit him perfectly. It was hard to tell, since costuming always had him in that trench coat and horrible suit, but he actually was in damn good shape. He had a runner’s build, lithe and strong.

 _Co-worker!_ Jensen told himself, turning away from watching Misha start to unwind the rope. That’s about when it hit him – bolts in the ceiling, enough rope to tie up an entire sorority... “Uh, are we expecting _anyone_ else tonight?” he asked, praying that Jared and Misha hadn’t decided that Jensen needed to get set up with some chick for a night of anonymous sex.

“No. But the party was the only way I could guarantee you’d be here. Lying was Jared’s idea,” he added, throwing Jared under the bus without hesitation.

“Uh huh.” Jensen looked from the rope back to Misha, who’d uncoiled the rope and was now pulling it through his hands without a single tangle or knot, as though he’d practiced this sort of thing. “What’re you doing?”

“We discussed ruining the surprise,” Misha scolded.

Resigned, Jensen gave up, idly picking up one of the coils, running it through his fingers. “I bought you a plant.”

He saw Misha’s surprise in the way his shoulders flexed and how his hands paused in working the rope. “Thank you,” he said, flashing Jensen a strange smile over his shoulder for one moment, before he went back to work. He’d doubled the rope at the exact center, and was now doing it again, folding it in fourths. He fed one end of the quartered rope through the eye bolt, then tugged the long tails through that loop in a dovetail knot, letting everything hang down to the floor. The ends just brushed the carpet.

“Perfect,” he muttered, his voice soft and satisfied. Jensen hid a little shiver and looked away as Misha climbed down to move the ladder to the other bolt, about four feet away. “What kind of plant is it?”

Jensen shrugged. “Blue. How the hell should I know?”

Misha’s laugh was bright and warm. “A blue plant. Thank you,” he repeated, his smile audible in his voice.

Jensen shrugged to himself, turning to watch Misha, falling silent again. This was all just a little too weird for his social skills to kick in and help guide him in making conversation. Misha had a whole army of ‘minions’, as they called themselves, who would be perfectly happy to come to Vancouver for a Saturday night bondage party with their ‘overlord’. If that wasn’t the plan... the only thing Jensen could figure was a bizarre art project.

Sometimes, it just wasn’t even worth it to try to figure Misha out.

As soon as the second hook was decorated with its strands of rope, Misha folded the ladder, picked up the tool bag, and carried both to the far side of the room. He left them against the wall and looked back, tilting his head Castiel-style, a faint smile dancing on his lips. “The color’s good,” he said, reaching out to the switches by the door. One flick dimmed the lights, an effect further helped when he nudged the bedroom door closed with one foot.

The sudden intimacy of the half-lit bedroom stole Jensen’s breath. “Um. Yeah,” he said, when a tiny, functioning part of his brain realized he was probably supposed to respond.

Misha laughed and walked over to the bed, standing with one leg just brushing against Jensen’s right knee. “Relax. No wonder why Jared was worried that you’re too tense. How are the dogs doing without him, by the way?”

Thrown off by the change in gears, Jensen said, “Fine. Kathie’s going to come by at about ten to let them out. I asked her to come back at six. I _figured_ the party wouldn’t end until late.”

“Good,” Misha said, utterly without guilt, as he worked on uncoiling one of the longest bundles of rope. In the half-light, the blue dye was dark against his skin, somehow bringing out the pale grace of his hands.

Abruptly, his fingers paused and Jensen realized he was staring again. “Mish –”

“Here. I shouldn’t have all the fun,” Misha said, giving him a bundle of rope from the other end. “Go on – it’s been conditioned.”

“Conditioned?” he asked, automatically taking the rope. He didn’t want to look like a complete idiot, so he searched it, trying to figure out how to undo the elegant twists without it turning into a tangle worthy of a bored cat.

“Hemp is naturally strong, but it’s stiff and covered in sharp fibers when it’s first woven. The rope has to be boiled and worked over a hard edge to soften it without weakening it too much. Then the fibers are singed off over an open flame. Then it’s oiled to keep it conditioned, and the oil’s worked in by hand. It takes a week or so to do properly.”

“A week?” Realizing this couldn’t have been cheap, Jensen put the soft coil back down on the bed.

Misha laughed and put it back in its hands. “It’s fine. It doesn’t bite, believe me. Go on – indulge yourself.”

“This, from you? I’m shocked,” he said dryly, but relented, finally giving an experimental pull on the visible tail end. To his surprise, the inner loops began to uncoil, coming loose in six-inch sections, until the tight, springy coil in the middle was all that was left. The whole thing fell apart, snaking down over his legs. “It’s... nice,” he finally said, a little weakly. It _was_ nice, for a piece of rope about nine or ten feet long. Of course, his experience with rope started and ended with tying over-full boxes closed when moving or hanging things up in the garage.

Misha stopped after unwrapping three of the coils, putting each one carefully down, looped into intricate repeating patterns, almost like the rungs of a ladder. “Nice,” he laughed softly, blue eyes fixing on Jensen, looking dark and positively sinful. “I’m going to have to convince you, I see. Get up.”

“What?”

“On your feet,” Misha said, taking away the short, thin rope with one hand, tugging on his arm with the other. “Jared was right. You really don’t relax, do you?” he observed, giving Jensen a little push toward the two sections of rope hanging from the ceiling.

Jensen got one step before digging in his heels, silently cursing Misha’s persuasive voice. “Whoa. Misha, I don’t know what you think –”

“Actually, you do,” Misha said quietly, his free hand closing around the back of Jensen’s neck. Tension shot down Jensen’s spine, making Misha laugh, breath ghosting over his hair. “Jensen. It’s just us here. Safe space. Do you trust me?”

The floor seemed to drop out from under Jensen’s feet. “Should I?” he asked, his throat suddenly dry.

“Let me help you,” Misha offered.

Of all the things he could have said, Jensen was entirely unprepared for _that_. He licked at his lips, thoughts of _co-worker!_ vanishing from his mind, replaced by a black hole of nervousness centered in his gut. “Mish,” he protested, the nickname sounding more like a plea of surrender.

At least, that’s how Misha took it, of course. “Good,” he said soothingly, giving Jensen another push.

Jensen couldn’t help but go along with it, having enough difficulty breathing, much less thinking. He made it to the ropes without tripping over his own feet, looking up at the ceiling as Misha got him standing between the two ropes, facing one, the other behind him. He had vague thoughts that there was something wrong with this and felt the world tilt again, in the other direction.

“Fuck. Misha, what –”

“No talking,” Misha said, catching his chin, rubbing a thumb across his lower lip. “Just relax. Okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jensen shot him a look at that, somewhere between suspicion and tentative excitement. If this was seduction, it was the _strangest_ seduction he’d ever seen – and so perfectly Misha that he wondered why he was even surprised.

Misha’s lips twitched into a secret little smile. He brushed his thumb across once more before he spun and went back to the bed, picking up one of the ropes. “Just stand there,” he said quietly. “Relax your shoulders. Let your arms hang down at your sides. Let your spine and hips carry your weight. Spread your legs just a little – that’s it,” he said approvingly and Jensen, for some inexplicable reason, complied.

The damnedest thing was that it _was_ relaxing, despite the slightly ominous threats of all this rope and Misha’s devious mind and the whole co-worker thing. It was just warm enough to be comfortable, with a little breeze coming through the cracked window. The lighting was soothing after a day playing video games – and yeah, Jared knew him too damned well, figuring he’d be spending his Saturday night blowing away pixels, pissing off 12-year-old kids who thought they were hot shit with a machine gun.

He let out a sigh and flexed his shoulders –

And stiffened all over again when Misha’s arms came up around from behind him, with a taut, doubled rope in his fingers. “Easy,” Misha whispered in his ear in that same persuasive, soft, low voice. “Just relax, Jensen.”

Jensen shivered, looking down as the rope stopped against his upper chest. Misha pulled it against his T-shirt, doing _something_ behind his back that tightened the twin coils around his upper arms, too. It wasn’t enough to trap them, but it was strangely confining.

He felt the loose tails of the rope brush against his left hand as Misha reached out, wrapping strong fingers around his wrist. “Mish-”

“Jensen.” The whisper in his left ear was soft but powerful. Demanding. Jensen closed his eyes and didn’t fight, though he told himself he was insane for not putting a stop to... to whatever this was.

 _It didn’t make sense._ At least, not in any way he could process. Because _Misha_ was tying him up, and as far as he knew, that sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen without talking it over first, without making sure there was interest on both sides, and at the very least, without taking off at least one person’s clothes first.

Apparently, Misha was going by a different rulebook. He got Jensen’s right wrist behind his back as well, but instead of just tying them there, crossed at the small of his back (which Jensen’s imagination, at least, told him would be perfectly effective and logical), he tugged his hands up until his forearms were parallel. The rope around his chest shifted just a bit.

“Can you leave them there? Just for a minute” Misha asked, and Jensen would never, ever understand why instead of protesting or asking what Misha was doing, he just nodded. “Good,” Misha approved quietly, reaching his left hand around Jensen’s left side, almost embracing him. Heat pressed against his back as Misha closed the distance between their bodies, right arm coming around his right side to take hold of the two strands of rope. He got one finger between the strands and laid them smooth, right up against the other two.

“Are you going to explain?”

“No. Now be quiet,” Misha said gently, fussing at the center of his back again. His arms came back around, this time passing the fifth and sixth loops from right to left, leaving a wide band around Jensen’s chest and arms. Every breath pressed against the rope, making him shiver again.

“Keep steady,” Misha urged, running one finger along the underside of Jensen’s right forearm, making him twitch as shocks of sensation played over his skin. He felt Misha’s fingers work the rope between his wrists and back, then up again, tugging his wrists together. He twitched and tried reflexively to pull free, but Misha pressed close to his back, whispering quietly, “Easy, Jensen. Relax. This is for you, remember?”

This time, he couldn’t even nod, but he stopped trying to pull free, wondering the whole time _why_. It wasn’t that it was threatening or dangerous – it was the exact fucking opposite, in fact. Every turn of the rope felt _safe_ , as if by taking away his freedom of movement, Misha was locking away the outside world, with its stress and so many demands on his time and attention, even from the people he loved, like his family and friends. All Misha expected was for him to _be here_. Nothing else.

He was shivering by the time one last tug secured his wrists tightly together, holding them almost perfectly horizontal, attached in some way to the band of rope around his chest.

That one band wasn’t enough, though; Misha started a second wrap around his chest, this time looping over his arms just above the elbows. It was tighter than the first – or maybe that was his imagination, since it didn’t affect his breathing. He felt his fingers nervously flexing and tried to consciously relax them.

“Good,” Misha approved, running one hand over his fingers, and Jensen shivered again.

The ropes wove under his wrists again, and then down to wrap around his waist in six more loops – right to left, left to right, right to left, and Jensen forgot anything but the feel of the constriction wrapping his body, Misha’s hands guiding the rope over him, breath warm against his T-shirt or arms or neck.

Still, he flinched in surprise when he felt Misha’s hands curve high around his left thigh, and he realized then that he was getting embarrassingly hard. “Shh, Jensen. Relax,” Misha said from somewhere down by his left hip as coils of rope circled his thigh.

“Fuck,” Jensen whispered tightly, licking at his dry lips, feeling almost dizzy. “Misha...”

“Jensen.”

He bit his lip, feeling his heart beat strong against the ropes, skin coming alive. It was as if he could feel every twist of rope pressing into his bare arms and suddenly he wondered what this would feel like _without_ clothes.

God. What the fuck was Misha doing to him?

More rope, this time up to the loops around his waist and then down to circle his right thigh, and Jensen’s erection was almost painful now. Thinking about doing this without a T-shirt was one thing; without jeans...

He couldn’t hide the faint sound that tore through his throat, and even though Misha didn’t say anything, his hands stilled for just a moment before he went back to his work.

Jensen’s whole body was shivering, little twitches pulling at every muscle, by the time Misha stood up and walked around in front of him. There as nothing shy or coy about the way Misha looked him over, eyes dark, pupils blown to nearly obscure all but a ring of brilliant blue. “God, if you could see how good you look,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Jensen closed his eyes, unable to look _and_ listen, entirely trapped by Misha’s ropes and charisma and will.

He heard Misha move again, circling around him, and ropes brushed over his left shoulder. Misha’s hands went up and down his spine, tugging at the ropes circling his body. “Lean forward, Jensen. Don’t worry – you won’t fall.”

“Misha...”

“It’s okay, Jensen. I’ve got you,” Misha promised, his voice a deadly, persuasive whisper brushing over Jensen’s left ear.

Bracing himself, Jensen leaned forward and felt his body press into the ropes. Misha gave his shoulder a gentle, steady push and he obeyed, almost laying down as the ropes along his spine pulled. He felt rope move against his T-shirt and realized Misha had woven in the ropes hanging from the ceiling. They took up his weight until he was nearly laying horizontal. His exhale was harsh and loud as he allowed himself to relax.

“Good, Jensen. You’re doing just fine.” Misha’s hands worked quickly just below Jensen’s waist, before he moved away.

Alarmed, Jensen twisted as best he could and looked over, but Misha was already coming back, carrying the other two lengths of rope. “Almost done, Jensen,” he promised, kneeling down on Jensen’s right side. He put a hand against Jensen’s ankle and tugged up the cuff of his jeans.

His calf muscle jumped when Misha’s hands circled his ankle. Instead of taking the easy route and lifting his foot, Misha held his foot in place on the carpet and looped the rope around. “Good. Now the other one,” he said, circling behind Jensen to kneel at his left side. “Are you still with me, Jensen?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice raspy and dry. He took a deep breath and licked his lips, saying, “I’m – okay.” God, that sounded inadequate, but he didn’t have any words for exactly what he was experiencing.

“Shift your weight, Jensen. Let me lift your ankle. No, don’t tense,” he soothed, cupping Jensen’s left ankle, above the rope wrappings. “You’re entirely supported. This rope can hold five times your weight, and the bolts aren’t going anywhere. Trust me.”

He did. God help him, he did. He closed his eyes and let Misha fold his ankle up, his weight split between his right leg and the ropes suspending him from the ceiling. He felt Misha get his fingers under the ropes around his left thigh and realized –

Oh, God, Misha was tying his ankle up tight against his leg, holding it bent tight. He shivered, pulling away by instinct, only to have Misha catch him by the hips. “Shh. It’s okay, Jensen,” Misha soothed, running a hand over his arm, the touch comforting rather than intimate. “You’re okay. You’re not going to fall, I swear.”

Jensen closed his eyes, his gut at war with his brain, screaming for him to stop this, to let Misha keep going, to just let go and experience whatever the fuck Misha was doing to him. It was like being torn apart painlessly, defenses stripped one by one before he’d even realized it was happening.

He stopped fighting, though he couldn’t stop shaking even more violently now.

Misha’s hand pressed along his arm again, over skin and rope and skin again, the touch easing away slowly rather than disappearing all at once. “It’s okay. This will help,” he said, and Jensen felt a tug on the other side of his ankle.

Then his weight shifted as he was pulled back, adjusting how he was laying in the coils of rope wrapped around his torso. “Better?” Misha asked.

“God. Mish.” His voice cracked.

Misha finally let out a small laugh – not malicious at all, but teasing, warm and comforting, like he was sharing a secret. “You’re doing just fine, Jensen,” he said, and finally, finally there was a hint of something darker, an edge of _interest_ that shot right through Jensen’s body, igniting the lust that had dimmed down under his fear.

He barely noticed Misha fussing with the rope around his right thigh until Misha asked, “Do you trust me, Jensen?”

“Fuck,” Jensen whispered. “Yeah, Mish.”

“I’m going to lift your right leg, but _you’re safe_. I swear it, Jensen. I’m not going to do it until you’re ready, though. Okay? So you tell me when.”

God, this really was insane. Fear spiked through Jensen, but only for a moment. What did it matter? He was barely supporting any weight on his right leg at all. And whatever this madness of Misha’s was... he wanted to know. He wanted to experience everything.

“Do it.”

With one steady, strong pull, ropes slid against denim and each other, and Jensen’s weight was off the ground, right leg folding against the back of his thigh, guided for a moment by Misha’s hand. He heard a hiss of effort from Misha as his body shifted, finding its equilibrium, trapped and supported by the web of ropes.

He was utterly helpless but absolutely _safe_ , limbs trapped against his own body, all wrapped in the web of Misha’s ropes. The feeling was almost dizzying, powerful in some transcendent way that had nothing and everything to do with the fact that he wanted Misha desperately. This wasn’t about tying someone to the bed for sex – this was so much more.

“God, Jensen. You should see yourself,” Misha whispered reverently from somewhere off to his right side. “You’re fucking _perfect_.”

Jensen couldn’t bite back his sigh when he felt Misha’s hands in his hair. His whole body was trembling but he felt so damned relaxed that he could only imagine that this was what it was like to fly, suspended weightless and safe.

Misha’s hands moved, touching his arms, his back, his hip, the top of his foot as he circled around, that touch just intrusive enough to let Jensen know that he was there, staying protectively close. It was calming and gentle, with something possessive in the way Misha’s strong fingers curled over his ankle or bicep, and Jensen could only think ‘Yes’ and ‘More’ and ‘Please’ as he waited for that one touch he wanted – the one touch that never came. He didn’t know if he actually _said_ any of it, but somehow, he thought Misha knew.

Some endless, torturous, blissful time later, Misha said, “Relax, Jensen. I’m going to let you down now, slowly. I promise you won’t fall.”

Jensen managed to nod, breath coming in slow, deep waves, blood rushing hot under his skin. He’d expected to ache as Misha released his right leg first, then his left, but he felt nothing but an incredible relaxation.

“Don’t try to stand,” Misha warned, and Jensen let out a soft, breathy laugh. There was no way he _could_ stand – not feeling the way he did.

And he didn’t have to. Misha did something to the ropes above him and he felt himself lowered down, legs folding naturally, until he was on his knees. Misha’s hands guided him back to sit on his heels, arms still bound tight to his back, as the tension in the ropes suspending him finally turned to slack.

Misha came around in front of him again and knelt, gentle hands cupping his jaw to lift his head, until their eyes met. “You still with me, Jensen?” he asked, his voice soft and rough and full of need.

Jensen swallowed. Nodded. Managed to say, “Yeah.”

“How do you feel?”

Jensen laughed again, leaning bonelessly into Misha’s touch, closing his eyes to escape the compelling gaze that had him prisoner just as effectively as the ropes.

Misha’s soft laugh was answer enough. “I could give you a clinical explanation for how you’re feeling, but I don’t think that’s what you want,” he teased.

“Fuck, Mish,” Jensen complained hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper.

“Is _that_ what you want?” Misha asked, fingers brushing over Jensen’s lips.

Jensen drew in a sharp breath, opening his eyes to search Misha’s face.

Misha’s head tilted. His hooded eyes narrowed and he licked his lips. “I thought you’d be more comfortable staying clothed...” His voice trailed off as his gaze dropped, roving over Jensen’s body, eyes darkening again as he took in the ropes, the way Jensen still trembled, the evidence of his arousal. “I might have been wrong,” he admitted.

Jensen got out one harsh bark of laughter. “Misha.”

His gaze snapped up to meet Jensen’s, wary.

“Shut up and kiss me already.”

“Are you –”

“Misha.”

Misha nodded as if he was suddenly nervous, even though Jensen was the one who was bound and helplessly. “I’ve wanted to, you know. _Forever._ ”

Carefully, so slowly that Jensen could have screamed, Misha tilted his head and leaned in, pressing his lips to Jensen’s. His mouth was all controlled heat and sin; he licked with absolute precision across Jensen’s lips, stealing the groan he couldn’t suppress, tongue delving into Jensen’s mouth without hesitation. Jensen strained against the ropes, overwhelmed by the taste and heat and raw need that was hidden between that carefully controlled facade Misha always presented to the world. Misha’s fingers dug into the ropes, holding Jensen close, tugging him to kneel upright, bodies pressing together.

“Oh, fuck, Jensen,” Misha breathed as he broke the kiss to gasp in a breath.

“Do it.”

Misha’s eyes went wide for an instant, before his little smile turned positively feral. “Jensen,” he purred, pulling Jensen close again, leaning to the side so he could nibble at Jensen’s ear. “You don’t particularly _like_ these clothes, do you?”

Jensen couldn’t even remember what he was wearing. “No –”

“Good. I’ll get the shears.” Misha drew back, meeting Jensen’s eyes again. “Unless you want me to untie you?”

 _Fuck._ Jensen’s breath lodged in his throat as a spike of lust shot straight down into his cock. He could say yes. He could talk Misha into the ropes. Call it payback. Say Misha owed him. Have Misha spread out across that huge fucking bed and take him all damned night, until neither of them could move.

“No,” he said, the word roaring up from some little masochistic corner of his subconscious.

Misha’s eyes lit up and he licked his lips. “If I cut these clothes off, Jensen, I’m not letting you go.”

“Do it. Get the shears,” Jensen said, wanting, _needing_ to feel Misha’s ropes on him, to see if he could take flight again, under Misha’s hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up work: [Soaring](http://archiveofourown.org/works/171140)


End file.
